


I Put a Spell On You

by DelilahMcMuffin, didipickles, missgeevious, reginahalliwell, ships_to_sail, yourbuttervoicedbeau (kiwiana)



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Lapdance, M/M, Stevie is a troll, Strip Tease, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24587602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DelilahMcMuffin/pseuds/DelilahMcMuffin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/didipickles/pseuds/didipickles, https://archiveofourown.org/users/missgeevious/pseuds/missgeevious, https://archiveofourown.org/users/reginahalliwell/pseuds/reginahalliwell, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ships_to_sail/pseuds/ships_to_sail, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwiana/pseuds/yourbuttervoicedbeau
Summary: David can feel the crowd shift gears. Conversations halt and bodies still. Up until now the music has been a series of the usual strip club songs with a strong, thumping bass good for high energy dancing and thrusting. This song is different. Patrick is different. He has the entire club’s attention immediately.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 48
Kudos: 233





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to our exercise in communal smut writing, which was undertaken as a way to procrastinate writing the other things we should be writing. We blame DelphinaBoswell.

David puts his phone down on the bar and growls at it in frustration. Fucking Stevie. It was her goddamn idea to meet here tonight, and now he’s sitting alone in The Dude Cave like some kind of pervert because she bailed at the last minute. This is not the type of establishment he wishes to patronize solo. It sends a certain desperate message that David isn’t interested in projecting. 

Not that he isn’t desperate. He is, frankly. He’s officially desperate. He’s been stuck in this horrifying little town for months and other than the brief and ill-advised couple of nights in the love room with Stevie, it’s just been sad threesomes with him, his hand, and his imagination. Well, and an infrequent cameo by one toy or another on the rare occasions he has the room to himself. He could download an app and see what there is around here, but he can’t stomach the possibility of who he might see as he swipes through. It’s difficult to find an anonymous hook-up in a place where the population is so small that almost everybody knows everybody else. 

He picks up his glass of whiskey and takes a sip, unwilling to let it go to waste. He’ll finish it and get out of here as quickly as he can. Fucking Stevie. Suddenly there is a ripple in the air next to him and he feels as much as sees the man leaning against the bar next to him. He looks over to see who it is and finds the man already staring at him, waiting for David’s attention. His eyes are the same warm brown as the whiskey in David’s glass and his smile is relaxed and confident. David’s breath catches in his chest for a moment at the instant attraction he feels toward the handsome stranger.

“Hi,” the man says.

David twists around to face him and leans back a bit so he can take in the whole picture. His eyes travel slowly down the man’s body. He is wearing a deep blue button-up shirt that clings to his chest and hugs his flat stomach before disappearing into a pair of plain but well-fitting dark wash jeans that cradle him so well, it’s nearly impossible for David to stop staring at his crotch longingly. None of it should work. He looks like an accountant, for Christ’s sake. But, somehow, it _all_ works. Or at least it’s working for David. Is he that desperate or is this guy that attractive? Both, maybe. He drags his eyes back up the man’s body again and swallows hard. “Hi.”

The man holds out a hand and says, “Patrick.”

David suppresses a laugh at this very formal introduction and gives him his hand. “David.”

“I’m not supposed to do this,” Patrick says. 

David tilts his head curiously, “Do what?”

Patrick holds out a slip of paper. “This.”

David takes the paper from him but before he can open it or ask what’s going on the DJ starts up with his patter, introducing the next dancer. David recognizes the opening notes of [“I Put a Spell On You” by Annie Lennox](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3TrSMaOZm3Y), which seems like an unusual choice. He starts to comment on it, but Patrick is walking away and he’s… oh sweet Jesus… he’s walking up onto the stage. David can feel his mouth hanging open and he clamps it shut again, just as Patrick spins around to face the audience. He locks eyes with David and does not look away as he begins to slowly roll his hips.

David can feel the crowd shift gears. Conversations halt and bodies still. Up until now the music has been a series of the usual strip club songs with a strong, thumping bass good for high energy dancing and thrusting. This song is different. Patrick is different. He has the entire club’s attention immediately. 

The lazy roll of Patrick’s hips is hypnotic as he turns in a slow circle and David gets his first good look at his ass. It’s magnificent. The piano climbs a key, and Patrick’s fingers drift to the buttons on the front of his shirt, making slow but steady work of slipping them open. His fingers aren’t short, necessarily, but they’re thick, and seem like they shouldn’t be capable of such delicate work.

Then again, just like the Annie Lennox and the whole sexy accountant vibe, everything he knows about Patrick so far is a contradiction. 

Patrick reaches the last button of his shirt and slowly pulls the tail out of the top of his dark denim jeans. David notes a brown braided belt, and he wants to roll his eyes, should _want_ to roll his eyes, but god damn even _that_ is working for David. It’s like Patrick really is putting a spell on him, and the only thing David can see now that he couldn’t see thirty seconds ago are arms, from the mid-bicep down.

Patrick’s undershirt is so white it’s practically glowing in the low stage lights of the club, and it makes for an even starker contrast where it digs in slightly to the curve of Patrick’s biceps. As he moves to unfasten his belt, David watches the way his hands flex, the way the tendons in his forearms pop enough to cast a shadow. David licks his lips and brings his glass to his mouth, surprised to find it empty already. He doesn’t remember finishing it.

But, his drink is done. He needs to go. He said he was going to go when his drink was done… but Annie is practically wailing “I love you, I love you, I love you,” over and over again and Patrick’s head is heavy on his neck and he turns and bends to untie the brown utility boots he’s wearing. His belt flops loosely at either side of his waist, and David can just see the top band of… whatever underwear it is Patrick’s wearing. It doesn’t have a name, which means it came in a pack of more than one at a store that sells the vast majority of its underwear wrapped in plastic. 

Another thing that is… incorrect about all of this, and yet David’s ass is glued to his seat and his eyes haven’t left the planes of Patrick’s back since he turned. Every movement sends a small ripple of muscle moving under Patrick’s t-shirt, and it makes David shiver, wrap his arms a little tighter across his chest as he brings his feet up to perch on the bar stool, leaning forward slightly. 

When Patrick’s done with his shoes, he toes them off and then in a single movement, pushes his pants to his knees. He crosses an ankle and grabs the hem of them with one hand, pulling quickly enough that his foot is out and back on the floor. He repeats the motion on the other side, and then —

David was right about the underwear, but it so beyond doesn’t fucking matter. The dark blue fabric wraps around Patrick’s ass like a second skin, dips under the curve where his upper thigh meets the curve of his ass, and god if David has ever seen an ass before that looked that much like a fucking peach emoji, he can’t remember seeing it. And then Patrick turns around with a slow, full roll of his body and _god._

There are good strippers, and there are great strippers, and there are strippers who shouldn’t be either and yet keep your eyes for the entire dance and walk away with most of your wallet at the end of the night — David has a creeping suspicion Patrick is the third type, the rarest variety. Because when he turns, his shy little smile half-hidden in the warm pink lighting above him, he looks like a cherub, but a cherub David wants to spread out and lick clean, eat for dessert and tie in a knot around his tongue like the cherry stem from a Manhattan.

He rolls his body again and then lets his knees hit the ground in a slow, controlled movement that takes the kind of thigh strength David wants to feel wrapped around his hips, and Patrick doesn’t stop there. He uses his knees to push off the stage floor until he’s at the edge of the dark surface, and then he spins sideways and lets his body lengthen out.

David is transfixed as Patrick’s arms stretch above his head and David can just see the rise of his nipples through the thin fabric of the t-shirt, which is darkening around the neck, under the arms, in a butterfly design along Patrick’s ribcage and sternum. 

Suddenly, with a noise that tears through David and leaves a pile of molten heat lingering in his groin, Patrick reaches up and rips the t-shirt collar to hem, sliding his arms out of it and leaving it tattered on the floor as he pushes backwards with the balls of his feet, planting his hand by his ears and _lifting_ off the ground into a handstand and _fuck_. David whistles, loud and piercing, and he can’t see Patrick’s face but fuck if he doesn’t imagine a smile there, anyway. 

Annie Lennox’s falsetto rings out a series of “because you’re mine”s and the strings swell as Patrick lowers himself once, twice, a third time towards the ground, the muscles of his arms bulging, a sheen of sweat covering his back and shoulders, and as her gravelly voice launches into the last refrain, Patrick’s legs lower until they’re over his head and he lifts his head for just a second — just long enough to find David’s eye and wink — before he’s planting his feet and lifting his upper body in a final move that brings him vertical and rolls his body one last time. The music fades as he struts across the stage, grabs the shredded piece of fabric that started the night as a humble undershirt, and walks through the back curtain. 

A silence falls over the crowd, much like it had before Patrick had started, and it lasts a beat before the cheers and applause erupt, David’s loudest amongst them. He immediately hates himself for thinking it, but — talk about putting a spell on someone. 

The applause is just dying down when he hears Stevie’s voice over his shoulder. “Who the hell was _that_?”

He groans, barely refraining from dropping his head onto the table. Of course she turns up _now,_ now that he’s spent the last three and a half minutes transfixed by a stranger, now that his heart is racing and his palms are a little gross, now that he wants to find Patrick and… and… something.

“Um, hi,” he says instead of answering her question. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Sorry for having a life outside of you,” she snarks, leaning over the bar and signalling for a couple of whiskeys before David can object. When the bartender hands them over she’s pushing one into David’s hand before adding, “You’re avoiding the question. Who was that guy?”

“Patrick,” he answers absently, and realises his mistake immediately when Stevie’s eyes widen and her jaw drops open in delight.

“You _know_ him?” she practically yells. David glares at her.

“No! He just… introduced himself, before the dance. I don’t know why.”

“Mm. And then locked eyes with you the whole time while he _took his clothes off.”_

David rolls his eyes and takes a long sip of his drink. “Probably angling for a good tip.”

“Yeah, I bet he was,” Stevie smirks. David hates her a little bit.

“Shut up,” he mutters.

“Ooh, good comeback. Hey David, why don’t you get up from the bar and walk over there with me?”

He hates her a lot. “Not right now, Stevie,” he says through gritted teeth as she throws her head back and laughs, delighted.

“Well, I actually do have to go over there for a minute, so you just wait here and try not to get arrested for indecent exposure,” she says, disappearing into the crowd. 

Glancing back down at his drink, David realises with a start that his fist is still clenched around the piece of paper Patrick gave him before his dance. He slowly unfurls his hand, but instead of opening it and risking further mocking from Stevie, he shoves it down into his pocket to deal with later. 

It’s a good call, because he’s barely pulled his hand out again when Stevie is back, sliding onto the barstool next to him and picking up her drink after setting down a paper receipt next to her coaster. He assumes it’s a receipt for something anyway, or a ticket, because he only gives it a cursory glance and doesn’t catch anything besides what appears to be an order number, B13, in large print above some sort of itemization. He forgets about the paper as soon as Stevie starts chattering about whatever motel drama held her up, but David is barely listening as he tries to get his stupid body back under control.

This is ridiculous. The guy is a seven at best, and his dancing was _fine._ It’s just… been a while, that’s all. He’s feeling a bit calmer, finally, so of course that’s when he feels a hand on his shoulder and a warm voice murmuring in his ear, just loud enough to be heard over the beat of the latest dancer’s song selection.

“You booked a private dance?”

David whips his head around to say there’s obviously been a mistake, then remembers what looked like a receipt and catches the look on Stevie’s face. He hates her so, so much.

“Happy birthday, David!” she cries. He glances over at Patrick, who’s grinning widely at him. He’s mostly dressed again, but there’s no sign of the torn undershirt (or a replacement David’s sure exists in a pack of ten somewhere) and several of the shirt buttons are undone.

“Oh, it’s your birthday? How old are we?”

“Okay, first of all, _no,_ and second of all, it’s not my birthday. Stevie’s just an asshole.”

Patrick’s smile doesn’t waver. “Well, birthday or not, she’s paid for your dance, so… shall we go?”

David kind of wants to find a way out of this but he also really doesn’t, and Patrick is looking at him so goddamn earnestly that he allows himself to be pulled out of the chair. He downs the last of his whiskey and leans down to mutter in Stevie’s ear, “They will never find your body.”

“If you can get enough blood flow to your brain to make a plan,” she shoots back, and the choking laugh from his right makes him very aware Patrick heard her. With one last glare, he lets Patrick’s hand on his arm guide him through the crowd and out to the private rooms in the back. There are a few open, so David’s surprised when Patrick leads them all the way down the hallway until the music from the main stage is faint enough that he can’t make out the lyrics.

“I prefer dancing to my own music,” he says with a shrug at David’s puzzled face as he opens the door. It’s no different from any other private strip club room David’s been in: a sofa and a small table with a Bluetooth speaker on it, and not much else. He peels off his leather jacket and hangs it on the hook behind the door before settling in on the couch, letting his arms drape along the back as he smirks up at Patrick. He’s feeling the speed at which he threw back his last drink and he’s happy to let his eyes roam blatantly up and down Patrick’s body.

Patrick’s fiddling with his phone, thumb hesitating over the screen. “David…” he starts quietly.

David swallows thickly. “Hmm?”

“I, uh,” Patrick shakes his head a little as if trying to clear it. “Do you mind if I start with my jeans off? Smaller space makes it harder to take them off… sexily.” He’s almost blushing by the end, and David feels a rush of something he can’t quite name. 

“Sure, that’s fine,” he says, and then catches his breath when Patrick puts the phone down, kicking his shoes under the table before bringing his hands to that ugly belt. He undoes the buckle before moving to his fly, unzipping quickly and pulling the jeans off as quickly as he can. And there’s nothing sexy about the motions; Patrick’s not putting on a show, and yet David’s mouth is suddenly dry and he’s half-hard when Patrick straightens up.

“Ready?” Patrick asks, voice steady, and David can only nod. Patrick leans over to press play on his phone before coming to stand in front of him. When the [sultry voice](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BNMKGYiJpvg) starts pouring out of the speaker, sans music for now, David stares at him.

“Really?”

Patrick shrugs. “Good rhythm, powerful voice,” he says, bending over so their faces are only a few inches apart, his hands stroking up and down David’s thighs until the beat kicks in. When it does, his hands come to David’s knees before shoving them apart, stepping in between his thighs as he lets his hips roll in time with the music. The move brings his crotch into David’s eye line, the cheap fabric of his briefs either doing him more favours than it has any right to or… or… fuck, maybe Patrick just _looks_ like that. He grips the back of the couch tightly to avoid breaking the ‘no touching’ rule, and with frankly a Herculean effort drags his eyes up to meet Patrick’s.

It was a mistake. He knows this immediately. Patrick’s eyes are dark and hungry, and -- and it’s his job to look at David like that, to make him feel wanted, but it’s so fucking intense David lets himself get lost in it anyway, just for a minute. 

Patrick sucks in a breath as he brings his hands to his buttons. David kind of wants to see him rip it off, let those cheap buttons fly all over the place, but he’s also very into the tease of it all. Patrick’s hips are snapping more than rolling now as he makes quick work of popping each button open, dragging his fingers down after each one.

 _It’s a new dawn._ Pop.  
_It’s a new day._ Pop.  
_It’s a new life._ Pop.  
_For me._ Pop. Pop.

And then the shirt is being slid over Patrick’s shoulders and off, and just like Nina Simone, David is indeed feeling good. However Patrick looked on stage he’s better up close; he doesn’t have the overly defined muscles of some of the dancers, but David hates those anyway. He’s lean and toned and looks deceptively strong, like he could flip David into any position he wanted him, and oh fuck he has to stop thinking like this. And then Patrick sinks to his knees, pushing David’s thighs even further apart, doing a body roll that should look ridiculous and yet… isn’t. And then Patrick _drags his face up David’s inner thigh,_ pulling away just before he makes contact with his dick, using David’s knees as leverage to stand again, and David is so fucking hard he can hardly breathe. 

Patrick turns slowly, hips rocking, and David takes the opportunity to let his gaze roam all over that broad back without feeling scrutinised. He’s entranced by the way the muscles shift and ripple underneath his skin; he wants to run his fingernails down it, down to that perfect fucking ass, he wants-- oh fuck, that ass, that Patrick is now dropping down onto him before rolling back up, over and over. And then Patrick’s turning again, placing his legs either side of David’s on the couch, grinding down into him again and again while David tries to think of the least sexy things he can to avoid embarrassing himself by doing something he hasn’t since the night after his Bar Mitzvah.

He barely notices the ringing silence when the song ends, too distracted by the way Patrick settles in his lap, arms braced on the back of the couch, framing David’s head between them. He has an insane urge to lick at the beads of sweat that have formed on Patrick’s forearms, and he looks away before he can. And did he not learn this lesson less than three minutes ago? Because now he’s making eye contact instead, and Patrick is just _looking_ at him.

David’s had his fair share of lap dances in his life, and this is the part where they politely hop off you, take their tip, and head back out to the main area. But… Patrick isn’t moving.

“So?” Patrick asks, catching his breath. “Are you up for it?”

And David thinks he might be hallucinating because _what the hell does that mean_? Is Patrick propositioning him? He thought Patrick was a dancer, not a prostitute. David knows how much of a faux pas it is to conflate one kind of sex worker with another and wouldn’t make that assumption. But there aren’t many other ways one can interpret a question like that. David furrows his brows. Perhaps it’s because there isn’t enough blood going to his brain right now that he can’t figure this out. 

“Up for…?” David trails off, not moving a muscle lest his _very aroused_ body betray him at a moment’s notice. He has so much pent-up energy, the slightest movement might set him off without any chance of containing himself. 

Patrick’s smile flags slightly, concern marring his confidence. “Did you not read my—”

“Oh,” David realizes, his brain finally remembering the unread slip of paper Patrick had mysteriously passed him before going on stage to perform the hottest strip number David has ever seen. Somehow. He still can’t figure out what it was that was affecting him like this. “I didn’t,” he starts, his eyes falling to his pants pocket and invading what little is left of Patrick’s personal space. 

He reaches a hand down, unavoidably grazing Patrick’s thick thigh on the way to his front pocket, a move that is difficult enough to do while seated _without_ the presence of a stripper on his lap. “Sorry, didn’t mean to—” David starts to apologize. 

Patrick breaks in. “It’s fine,” he says, raising his body infinitesimally away from David’s to give his hand more space. 

David retracts his hand, paper successfully retrieved. 

Patrick sits there patiently, not speaking, while he allows David to read what he’s written there. 

_I’d like to take you out,_ it says. _Patrick Brewer_ and then what looks like an actual phone number. David raises his eyes to Patrick, who is calmly awaiting David’s answer, his weight still resting across David’s lap. 

“So? Will you go out with me?” he asks, as earnest as David was in his earlier appreciation of Patrick. 

“Like, outside of this? I’m not really desperate enough to pay for—” he rambles, and Patrick’s gaze returns sharply from lower on his body where it had been wandering back to David’s eyes, a mixture between disappointment and humor in his expression. 

“Look, I’ve never done this before, I don’t ever do this, I just…” Patrick’s fingers squeeze David’s biceps before roving over his shoulder blades to rest on his collarbones. It almost feels like a caress, but in the context of this room, David doesn’t think he should overestimate the significance of any touch. He’s still a customer and Patrick is on the clock. 

“Yeah,” David’s voice answers, cracking halfway through the word. “Yes, I’d like to go out with you.”

Patrick’s eyes light up as he takes in David’s response, but then realizes the other man is still very aroused and tense beneath him. He isn’t touching Patrick, and every muscle in his body is flexed tight, even his smile.

“Great. Why don’t I come and find you when my shift is over in—” he looks at the clock above the door— “twenty minutes, and we can grab a drink and talk. Not here,” he adds at the last second, as if realizing David might open up a bit if he doesn’t have to worry that Patrick is manipulating him for a better tip.

“Sure,” David agrees easily, reaching for his wallet in his back pocket to pull out said tip.

“That’s okay,” Patrick concedes. “Your friend took care of it. Something about ‘you being too poor to tip sufficiently,’ I think.”

David’s jaw drops, though he shouldn’t be surprised at Stevie trolling him. 

“I can pay for my own strippers, thank you very much,” David announces defensively, though it’s really Stevie who needs convincing. Patrick doesn’t even know his last name, that he’s David Rose of the Rose Video Roses, who has fallen so far as to need to visit the Elmdale Dude Cave on _a weeknight_ for company.

“Okay, then.” Patrick doesn’t seem to care one way or another. But then, he’s already been paid. 

David is still hard when Patrick suddenly lifts off his lap, the arousing (and also somehow comforting) weight of his body gone in an instant. It leaves David feeling bereft, and he almost whines at the loss of pressure against his cock. That friction was exquisite and now that it’s gone, David is even more desperate. 

He clears his throat, thinking of things that will turn him off. _Kanye West’s clothing line. His father in a nightshirt_. _Roland’s mullet._ “Ciao,” he says, standing up and walking out of the room immediately. He said ‘ciao’ to that person. Wow.

David is pretty sure he couldn’t be any more awkward, but then Stevie walks up to him with that grin on her face and he wants to tell her to go fuck herself but his brain is all muddled and he can’t get an insult to come out properly. She just laughs at him and drags him to the bar to get another whiskey into him so maybe he can recover and tell her all about his private dance. 

“So,” she sing-songs. “Did you enjoy your birthday present?”

He glares at her and downs the rest of the caramel liquid, pleased with the burn as it goes down his throat. “Fuck off,” he says, finally getting his mouth to catch up to his brain. 

“I like this for you,” she says with a twinkle in her eyes. She gives him the thumbs up, and he rolls his eyes, still not convinced the whole thing wasn’t a ruse. The man was being paid to appear to care about him for a few minutes, for the love of god. It’s not something he’s entirely inexperienced with. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see a now fully-clothed Patrick leaving their private room and exiting through an “Employees Only” door. Part of him desperately wants to know what would happen if he stayed and went to see Patrick when he’s off the clock. When he agreed to the date, he really believed he would do it. Now he’s thinking it might be easier to play the whole thing off as a fun experience and drag Stevie somewhere else so he doesn’t have to risk being disappointed. But then, he can’t really imagine Patrick disappointing anyone.

“Come on,” Stevie beckons, “let’s go for a smoke.”

They find a semi-obscured area outside and Stevie pulls a joint out of her pocket, a treat she stashes for just such an occasion. She lights the joint and takes the first pull, breathing it out and then immediately inhaling another, larger drag. As she exhales, Stevie hands the joint off to David, who eagerly takes a long pull. 

“I’ve known the guy for all of ten minutes,” David breaks the silence with his unprompted statement. 

“Yeah,” Stevie says, flicking the end of the joint before lighting it back up. “So?”

“So, what the hell am I doing?”

“I don’t know, but I’ve never seen eye-fucking before like Patrick was doing with you that whole time. And if that’s what Patrick looks like in front of other people, I can’t even _imagine_ what your private dance was like,” Stevie says, unable to suppress her smile.

“I hate you,” he says, but of course, he doesn’t. He hates himself a little right now, hates how much he likes Patrick already. How much he’s already invested in this. 

They pass the joint back and forth a few more times, the time passing quietly as David tries not to panic. 

When they go back inside, Patrick is waiting at the bar, tipping out to the bartender and dressed in an entirely different yet somehow aesthetically identical outfit. The button down is a different shade of blue and rolled up to his elbows, the jeans are now a lighter wash, and the boots have been replaced with some kind of mountaineering shoes. Stevie shoves David a little, and his large frame is so off-kilter that her light touch is enough to push him slightly in Patrick’s direction. 

The shorter man looks up at David’s movement in his periphery and smiles. “Hey,” Patrick says. “Still up for that drink?” He nods at the bartender and grabs his wallet and jacket. 

Stevie answers for him. “He sure is,” she says with a saccharine expression, even as David’s mouth opens to try and back out. 

“Great,” Patrick nods, and gestures to David as he walks toward the door. 

David looks back at Stevie questioningly, and she raises her hands to make the ‘okay’ sign and reassure him she’ll be fine. Or he’ll be fine. Or _Patrick_ is fine. Or maybe all of the above.

He turns to follow Patrick out of the Dude Cave, presumably to the Wobbly Elm shining its fluorescent lights on the patio only a couple of blocks away. Is he actually under this man’s spell? Because David thinks he might be in some sort of sexy rom-com that is the bastard child of Pretty Woman and Magic Mike. 

“I’m David Rose,” he says, and isn’t sure why. But it fills the silence. 

“Patrick Brewer,” Patrick answers unnecessarily, because he already put his full name and phone number on that slip of paper for David. And David is realizing now that Patrick handed that to him before his striptease, before his lap dance. David hadn’t even noticed Patrick and then suddenly the guy is in front of David, handing him a slip of paper before heading onstage to give that… compelling performance. 

“Well, Patrick, you’re either very impatient or extremely sure of yourself,” he accuses the man at his side.

“Yeah, I’m sorry, I know I threw you a bit of a change-up there,” Patrick concedes, obviously aware that what he had done wasn’t exactly protocol. 

“I don’t know what that means,” David says, shaking his head, and he must be crazy, because now Patrick’s giving him that look and he isn’t on the clock and Stevie was right — this is _next level_ eye-fucking. 

And then in a distinct role reversal, it’s David’s larger frame caging Patrick’s body, this time up against one of the buildings in the strip mall next to the Dude Cave. And David, beyond his own understanding, is leaning in and oh-so-gently kissing Patrick, a brief but distinctly intentional kiss, and it cuts through the tension between them immediately, like all the energy in his body has been stored up for just this purpose.

He wants to kiss Patrick again, but Patrick is looking at him with a fond expression that nearly stops his heart.

“Thank you,” he says simply, the confidence he’s been projecting all night dimmed for a moment. 

“For what?” David asks, his eyes widening in confusion. _Thank you_ isn’t exactly the ideal response to someone kissing you, but he supposes there are worse reactions.

“I know what it looks like. I work at The Dude Cave, David. I know what you must think. But that felt like the first time for me,” he says. “I was worried I was going to let us leave things tonight without doing that, so, thank you… for making that happen for us.”

David’s smiling, probably like an idiot, because this _sex god_ _slash accountant_ is looking at him like he’s a little bit in love and David is pretty sure his expression is the same, and they are standing in a goddamn Dollar Tree parking lot. “Well,” he says, “Fortunately, I am a very generous person.”

Patrick grins, slides his hand into David’s, and starts tugging him toward the Wobbly Elm. “Okay, David, you can buy the drinks then.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Further adventures of Stripper Patrick, the accountant/sex god.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** Mind the bump up in the rating, friends! ***
> 
> Thanks to this-is-not-nothing for helping us when we got stuck and giving us a good beta-ing.

Patrick continues holding David’s hand for the rest of the short walk to the bar and David should mind it. Normally he _would_ mind it. He’s not really a _holding hands_ kind of person. He goes along with it, though, and he hates it less than he thought he would. Patrick’s hand is strong and solid in his own and bigger than he thought. When they arrive at the bar, Patrick drops his hand and David actually _does_ hate that, but it’s only so he can hold the door open for David to walk through ahead of him and, well, that’s nice. He thinks about making a joke about chivalry not being dead but the bashful way Patrick smiles into his eyes stops the words before they get out and David finds himself smiling back instead. When Patrick rushes just a little to get to the bar first and pull out a stool for David, David finally realizes… this might not be just a charming prelude to a hook-up. This might be a _date._

Oh.

He’s not sure if he’s disappointed or excited by the idea. Both? He might be both. On the one hand, he’d been working on a fairly intense fantasy about ripping one of those white t-shirts off Patrick himself and _finally_ putting his hands on that body. On the other hand, the way Patrick looks at him with those big brown eyes is— well, it’s something. And being the object of that gaze is definitely working for him too. 

Patrick settles onto the chair to David’s right and raises a hand to the bartender. He looks at David and says, “Whiskey?” David nods and Patrick holds up two fingers to the bartender. “Whiskey, please.”

Then he looks at David. “So.”

David nods and tucks a smile into one corner of his mouth before responding. “So,” he repeats. Then he can’t help himself and says, “Must be super convenient having a Dollar Tree right next to the club. Somewhere to spend those… dollars.”

Patrick nods seriously. “For sure. For the other dancers. I’m sure it’s convenient.” 

“For the other dancers. But not for you?”

Patrick leans forward a bit, lets his voice drop low, and very confidently says, “I can’t remember the last time someone gave _me_ a single dollar bill, David.”

David laughs, delighted. “I see. You don’t have any trouble getting the money?”

“I do not.”

Patrick’s confidence is sexy but it’s also a little confusing. David’s still not sure if this is Patrick’s club persona, or if he’s being his authentic self right now. He decides to try to figure that out. “You’ve really never done this before?”

“What?” Patrick says. “Asked a club guest to go out with me?”

David nods. 

It might simply be the play of shadows in the dim light of the bar, but David is pretty sure Patrick blushes a little and isn’t that the cutest thing. “I’ve definitely never done this before, David.” His eyes flick quickly down to David’s mouth and back up again. “I’ve never even been tempted to do anything like this before.”

“Oh,” David breathes. “I guess there’s a first time for everything.” They stare at each other for a beat. Whatever this thing is between them, it just ticked up another notch and he can see heat flooding Patrick’s eyes. Suddenly David is thinking about earlier, about how Patrick slowly slipped the buttons of his shirt free and shrugged it off his shoulders. And he’s thinking about how it felt when he climbed onto David’s lap and pressed down against him. David’s cock twitches and he has to look away for a moment and try to settle down again. Then he thinks about the sweet, almost chaste kiss they shared outside the club. The way Patrick alternates between shy accountant and confident sex god is confusing but, jesus, it’s _so_ very hot. 

The bartender arrives with their whiskey then, thank god. David is about to take a drink when he notices that Patrick is holding his glass out as if to make a toast. David lowers his own and waits. 

“To first times,” Patrick says with a sexy smirk. 

_Oh my god,_ David thinks. “To first times,” he says and then swallows the entire thing in one go and holds his glass up to get the bartender’s attention. He’s definitely going to need more whiskey. 

Patrick takes his time with his glass, pulling a long, slow swallow down his throat, which David only knows because he can’t seem to take his eyes off the way Patrick’s Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows, when he speaks, how it’d look while Patrick did a whole host of other things with his mouth. “So,” Patrick says, and David’s eyes immediately fly back to his own. Patrick’s looking at him with the smallest of smirks, and David knows he’s been caught looking. “More firsts? Was tonight your first time at The Dude Cave?”

David blushes and presses his lips together into a smile, the bartender finally coming to grab his empty glass off the bar, sliding a full one into its place. “Yes,” he nods. “Yes it was.”

“And tonight’s the night you decided you needed to go spelunking, huh?” The word sounds so dirty in Patrick’s practical, patient tone that David immediately racks his large mental catalogue of sex acts for whatever ‘spelunking’ might be, and comes up empty.

“I don’t know what that means,” he says with a little shrug, taking a long drink of his whiskey, but not downing the entire thing— he can feel a warm weight building in his stomach already, and he doesn’t want to rule out any possibilities for the night before they’ve really had the chance to get the night started. 

Patrick laughs. “I just meant— why tonight? What brought you out to my neck of the woods?”

 _His_ neck. Like Patrick owned the stage, and let everyone else do what they want. And, well, it shouldn’t be setting David on fire like a million tiny flames, but it is. 

“Stevie,” David says, like that should be enough of an explanation. Which it is, if you know Stevie, but Patrick doesn’t, so his brow just furrows and David waves a hand through the air between them. “The friend I came with? Or— met here, actually, I guess. She’s trying to cheer me up.”

“So she brought you to _The Dude Cave?_ ” 

This time, it’s David’s turn to laugh, and to catch Patrick's eyes on the column of his throat as he does. Patrick continues to oscillate between staggering self-confidence, and vulnerable self-deprecation, and the longer it goes on the more David thinks that that’s just...how Patrick operates? Sounds fake to him, but he’s never exactly been good at all of those ‘emotions’ people like to talk about. 

“To Stevie, watching people take their clothes off in front of a late-night shrimp buffet and all you can drink draft beer keg _is_ a cheer-up.”

“And why does she think you need cheering up?” He’s running the edge of this thumb around the edge of the whiskey glass, the edge pressing ever so slightly into the pad of his thumb, and David opens and closes his mouth a few times before finishing the whiskey in his glass and setting it down with a little ‘click’ on the bar. 

“So, Patrick!” His voice is sharp and bright and one notch too loud. “How long have you been a dancer?”

Patrick dips his head in a shy acknowledgement of the subject change. He also rolls his eyes a little bit and flags down the bartender again, gesturing to both himself and David. “Since my Grade Eleven talent show.”

“You stripped for a talent show?” David went to some very progressive schools, but that seems a touch over the top. David briefly wonders if it was like a very sexy Marina Abramovic, Patrick staring at the audience slowly shedding layers, or like a very Canadian Magic Mike, with borrowed woodshop tools. Patrick looks like he grew up in a town where you needed to learn to build things.

Patrick’s laugh rings out, sudden and bright, and it makes David flush. “No, David. I didn’t strip for my Grade Eleven talent show.”

“Oh god, I bet you and several wrestling buddies danced to the YMCA. That’s actually worse than stripping, for the record.” David drapes a hand across his forehead in mock horror like he's suddenly in need of smelling salts.

“I was on the baseball team.” Patrick is quick to clarify.

“Does that mean I had the rest right?” David smirks.

“I’ll tell you on our second date.” Patrick takes a sip of whiskey, watching David carefully. David looks down into his lap, worrying the rings on his right hand with his long fingers. _If you want one_ , David thinks. He’s not so confident as Patrick is in this...whatever this is. 

“Do you want to play pool, or darts, or something?” Patrick asks, suddenly sounding a little nervous. Still, he says it confidently enough, like that might really be something people do on dates at bars like the Wobbly Elm. 

“No,” David says, a laugh escaping him as his smile widens with some secret pleasure in refusal. _Those aren’t the balls he’d like to be handling_. David can’t believe he’s just thought that. At least he didn’t say it out loud. But as Patrick considers his response, David takes a long moment to appreciate his expression, the tilt of his mouth into the barest of smiles, the glint of desire that starts to bloom there.

“Okay,” Patrick says, biting his lip a moment. “How about a dance then?”

David stammers a bit, looking at Patrick with confusion. “One’s enough for the night, don’t you think?”

Patrick chuckles and grabs David’s hand as the music that’s been playing in the bar kicks up a few decibels. “Not that kind of dance, David,” Patrick clarifies, as he pulls David’s larger frame flush with his.

_They say oh my god I see the way you shine_

_Take your hand, my dear, and place them both in mine_

The Wobbly Elm hosts parties on Friday nights that they apparently think can be legitimately characterized as “raves.” David could beg to differ, but at the moment he’s nothing but appreciative of the bass pounding in his chest and the beat calling Patrick’s body to move.

_You know you stopped me dead while I was passing by_

_And now I beg to see you dance just one more time_

The rhythm is just slow enough that the grind of his body against Patrick’s is excruciatingly intense and just this side of explicit. Patrick’s hand slides to his hip and pulls him close, his lips ghosting over David’s as they share shallow breaths moving their bodies together to the beat of the song. Patrick’s other hand brushes the skin on David’s neck, his touch impossibly light and tender as his fingers graze the dark hair there.

_Ooh I see you, see you, see you every time_

_And oh my I, I, I like your style_

It’s sensory overload, the flashing lights and pounding bass numbing David’s body to every input outside of Patrick. Just Patrick, writhing against him. David stops caring about the dingy floors or Patrick's mid-range denim, all he cares about is this.

It’s volatile, this energy inside of him that might erupt without his permission. What Patrick’s doing to him, how he’s leading their bodies in this confident movement, it’s a rush.

_You, you make me, make me, make me wanna cry_

_And now I beg to see you dance just one more time_

Patrick is— David can now confirm— well beyond his purview as an employee at the Dude Cave, an _exceptionally_ talented dancer. He moves his body with an easy confidence, one that enhances the not-so-innocent look his eyes scream at David, like he would not only let David devour him, but go willingly. Like they’re not doing something that looks a lot like fucking right in the middle of a crowd of dancing drunks right now. 

_So they say dance for me, dance for me, dance for me, oh, oh, oh_

_I've never seen anybody do the things you do before_

Patrick pulls away just enough to get a better look at David, then leans back in and kisses him. Their second kiss. Patrick’s mouth lingers against his, like he can’t quite bring himself to pull away, until David’s hand reaches up to touch the back of Patrick’s neck, fingering his hair in encouragement. They’re still dancing, but Patrick’s movements falter and David can tell Patrick’s as affected by the kiss as he is. 

_They say move for me, move for me, move for me, ay, ay, ay_

_And when you're done I'll make you do it all again_

“Fuck,” David breathes out, stretching the word to several syllabus. “Umm, can we get some air?” He needs a breather or he’s going to come in his pants. On a first date. In public.

Patrick smiles knowingly, a blush gracing his own cheeks, and not just from the cardio. “Sure,” he agrees, taking David’s hand once again in his, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He leads them out the front door, but then ducks to the side of the building into the shadows, where the floodlights can’t quite reach. 

They can still hear the thumping rhythm of “[Dance Monkey](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gADgM89skZQ)” playing inside, but the beat of David’s own heart is now pounding louder than the bass. He’s leaned up against the brick exterior of the Wobbly Elm, and while Patrick isn’t pressed up against him anymore, they’re still very much in each other’s personal space. The chill air is not doing enough to cool him down, and he can feel a shiver run through him and goosebumps rising on his bare arms. 

“You know,” Patrick says, “there’s another first I was hoping to experience tonight.”

“Oh?” David says on an exhale, barely audible over the thrumming bass of the music inside the club. Patrick is looking at him through lowered lashes, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth. David wants to take that lip between his own teeth, lick it and suck it and worry it until it’s raw and plump and slick. 

“Yeah,” Patrick replies, and his bottom lip bobs free. David can’t take his eyes off it. “I, um...I’ve never been with a guy. Never met someone I wanted to take that chance with. Until tonight.”

“Oh.” David wishes he could think of something more intelligent to say, but with all of the blood in his body rapidly pooling low in his pelvis, it’s the best he can do. 

Patrick gives him a shy smile, and David can’t help thinking that someone who dances like Patrick, who seduces like Patrick, shouldn’t be allowed to look so innocent. It’s unfair. “I saw you, David, and I couldn’t help myself.” He raises a hand and trails a calloused finger along the curve of David’s jaw, his rough skin catching along David’s jagged edges. “You’re so beautiful. I’ve never felt...compelled before. Like that.”

David’s throat is dry and his hands feel huge and clumsy. He swallows, reaches out to wrap his palm around the nape of Patrick’s neck, pulling him in. Kissing him. Patrick whimpers and opens his mouth for David’s tongue. They break apart, foreheads touching, breaths mingling in the space between them. 

“What other first were you hoping for tonight, Patrick?” David asks. He nudges Patrick’s cheek with his nose. “Whatever it is, I’ll say yes.”

Patrick exhales shakily, his eyes fluttering shut. “Everything,” he murmurs, and David thinks it sounds like a plea and a confession all at once. “David, I want everything.”

“Mmkay,” David says, feeling as overwhelmed as Patrick looks. “Start with one thing. One thing that you want right now.”

Patrick’s eyes fly open and zero in on David’s lips. “Kiss me,” he whispers, and David smirks.

“That’s not a first,” he teases, but he’s already leaning in, his hands pressing into Patrick’s toned shoulders to push him back into the rough brick. When he hits the wall Patrick’s mouth drops open, his eyes widening as he stares at David.

“You’re strong,” he gasps. A self-deprecating remark is on the tip of David’s tongue when he takes in Patrick’s expression, wonder and longing and discovery all wrapped up in one.

“You like it,” he says instead. It’s not a question, but Patrick nods quickly. “A first?” he asks, and Patrick nods again. 

Without another word, David slowly slides his palms from where they were resting on Patrick’s shoulders, down his arms until they reach his hands. He threads their fingers together before raising Patrick’s arms up and away then slamming them back into the wall, hands either side of his head as Patrick groans at the impact, their arms pressed together from palm to elbow. David takes a deep breath, their bodies are flush from arm to hip, one thigh slotted in between Patrick’s; he can feel the way Patrick’s heavy breathing moves his chest, the erection pressing against his own proof of just how much he likes being pinned.

He presses his lips to the juncture between Patrick’s jaw and neck. “You like it,” he repeats into the salty skin there, feeling Patrick shudder as he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh. Patrick’s breath is coming in short, needy pants, their hips rolling together slowly as David licks and sucks and bites until there’s a bruise blooming underneath his teeth, contrasting beautifully with Patrick’s pale skin.

“Keep these here,” he says quietly, squeezing Patrick’s hands before letting go to place his hands either side of his jaw. He leans in and presses their lips together, soft at first but Patrick moans into it and David swipes his tongue along his lower lip. Patrick opens his mouth and then they’re giving and taking, tongues exploring each other’s mouths, the rocking together of their bodies getting steadily more purposeful until they’re moving in time with the bass they can hear pounding faintly through the walls. David keeps one hand where it is, thumb stroking Patrick’s cheek, as he moves the other one down the side of his neck, using his fingernails to scrape faint lines into his skin until he hits fabric. He lets his fingers slide under the collar just a little, imagines ripping the budget shirt right off Patrick’s body, wonders how Patrick would react to having his gorgeous, muscular chest exposed to the night air. Instead of finding out he unhooks his fingers, continuing his meandering path down Patrick’s body on top of the fabric until his nails scrape a nipple and Patrick breaks their kiss, head dropping back to hit the wall behind him as he moans so loud David flicks a glance towards the door.

“Oh, that’s a first,” Patrick gasps before David can ask. He grins, his hand continuing its journey down Patrick’s stomach before it moves back up, this time under the shirt until it finds its way back to Patrick’s nipple. He scrapes his nails over it again before pinching, watching as Patrick’s eyes flutter shut and his mouth falls open. 

“God, David,” Patrick whispers, his voice cracking. “I’ve never— I didn’t—” He looks wild, hungry, desperate; through all of this, his hands never move an inch from where David pressed them against the brick even as his hips cant forward eagerly.

“Shh, I know, I’ve got you,” David murmurs, brushing a thumb over Patrick’s nipple soothingly before pulling his fingernails over it again. Patrick keens, and David feels smug for about half a second before Patrick turns his head into the hand that’s still framing his face and sucks David’s thumb into his mouth without preamble. David watches in awe as Patrick bobs his head, releasing his thumb almost all the way before sucking it down again, pushing his teeth along the skin. Then he _winks,_ the asshole, as he drags his tongue along the side of David’s thumb and swirls it around the tip, abandoning any pretence that he’s not simulating a filthy, if toothy, blowjob.

“Fucking— _fuck,"_ David hisses, pushing as far into Patrick’s mouth as he can and grinding their hips into the wall at the same time. It’s not like he ever forgot he was hard but he’s suddenly overwhelmed by how turned on he is. And it’s not like this is his _favourite_ pair of underwear.

He’s just sliding his free hand down Patrick’s stomach towards his fly when the door bursts open and two girls come tumbling out, drinks in hand. They look over at the two of them pressed up against the wall, one of David’s hands under Patrick’s shirt and the other with his thumb in Patrick’s mouth, and start giggling.

“Oooh, don’t stop on our account,” one of them says, and her friend shoves her.

“Excuse us,” she laughs, and the two of them stumble around the corner. Once they’re gone Patrick releases David’s thumb with a popping sound and lets his head fall back to the wall.

“Need to get out of here,” he mumbles, and David freezes. He’s heard that before. Usually the gay crisis is _after_ they’ve come, but hey— maybe Patrick is just very efficient. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, stumbling back out of Patrick’s space. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” 

Patrick frowns at him. “What?” he asks, before his expression clears. “Oh! No, David— we. We need to get out of here.” He steps forward, his hands sliding around David’s waist. “We need privacy,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to David’s neck. The embarrassment David feels at jumping to the worst possible conclusion is quickly burned away by a rolling heat at the concept of privacy.

“Your place?” David asks, and Patrick’s face falls.

“Uh, I actually have a roommate, and he’s… chatty. How about yours?” he says hopefully. 

David winces. “I see your roommate and raise you a roommate who’s actually my sister, and also we _literally_ share a room.” It doesn’t exactly make him seem more attractive, he knows that, but Patrick’s face only shows frustration and not distaste.

“Shit,” Patrick growls. 

David chews his lip. “Okay,” he says after a long moment. “I have an idea.” 

“Anything,” Patrick murmurs back, and then leans in and kisses the tendon of David’s neck, which is unfair because David is trying to think.

“We could...go to your car?” He feels seedy and sketchy even suggesting it, but then again they’ve been dry-humping against a brick wall, so clearly Patrick isn’t that picky.

Patrick pulls back, and his eyes are glassy but focused when he nods. “Yeah. Okay, yeah.” 

They hold hands again when they walk to the back parking lot of _The Dude Cave,_ and yeah, maybe holding hands isn’t as bad as David thought. Especially when Patrick rubs his thumb over David’s knuckle and grins at him.

Patrick’s car is a perfectly respectable sedan, because apparently Patrick really went all in on the accountant aesthetic. David bites his tongue and doesn’t comment, because he’s still a little worried that Patrick could get spooked at any moment and call this off. 

When they are next to the car, David grabs Patrick by the hips and pushes him hard into the driver side door. Patrick whimpers, and _fuck_ that’s a good sound. “You do like it,” David says again, and then they’re kissing again, close and hot and dirty. Patrick’s hands move restlessly over David’s back, and David presses his thumbs into the dip in Patrick’s hip bones, and it’s so _easy._ David could probably spend hours like this, pushing Patrick the accountant slash stripper into a car and pulling tiny sounds from him. But Patrick has other plans.

“So,” Patrick pants when he manages to break the kiss, “were you wanting to actually get in the car, or just grind against it?” Even with his ears tinged pink, he manages to be a little shit, and David _likes_ him.

“Backseat,” David says, hoping it sounds commanding instead of pleading. Patrick nods and fishes a key from his pocket.

By the time the windows are cracked and they’re in the backseat, David’s lost a bit of his nerve. He wants Patrick’s firsts to be good and memorable and not something he looks back on with regret, and maybe this is a mistake. But then Patrick clears his throat and David turns, and Patrick’s got that little bit in love look in his eyes again, and all David can think now is _fuck it._

It takes a few tries to get them down to their underwear, and David’s surprised at how much he’s laughing with Patrick, but it’s actually fun. Patrick smiles like the goddamn sun when he manages to crawl onto David’s lap. David has now seen Patrick’s underwear three times tonight, but now he can see it against his own black boxer briefs, can see the way their hard cocks both press against the fabric and each other.

“Fuck,” Patrick whines, grinding down in a much less coordinated motion than his dance earlier. David can’t blame him; he feels like he’s seconds away from coming in his underwear and most of his brain is just chanting to fuck upward.

“Shh, hey, Patrick,” David hears himself say, and he sounds even and calm. Wow. Patrick manages to stop moving and look up at David. It’s a tight fit and Patrick’s head is bumping the ceiling, but he doesn’t seem to care. David reaches up and strokes his thumb over Patrick’s cheek. “Can I touch you?”

Patrick’s eyes close for a moment, and he sounds utterly broken when he opens them again and says, _“Please.”_

David leans in and kisses Patrick softly and then looks down between them. He peels the nameless waistband of Patrick’s underwear down until his cock is finally and gloriously free. It’s thick, and glistening, and David wants to get his mouth on it so badly it might kill him, but not right now. Instead, he brings a hand to Patrick’s mouth and says, "Lick.” Obediently, Patrick does, and then David lowers his hand to Patrick’s cock. The sounds Patrick makes are positively pornographic and more than encouraging, so David quickens his hand.

Just as David starts to incorporate swiping his thumb over the head, Patrick grabs his shoulders hard. “Wait, stop, stop,” Patrick whispers, and David’s hand flies off of Patrick’s dick and he looks up in alarm. “No,” Patrick says, leaning in and kissing David quickly. “I just. Can I…?” He gestures at where David’s cock is quite obviously straining against his boxer briefs. 

On the one hand, it’s cramped and a weird angle and it’s going to be so messy, but on the other hand, Patrick is asking to touch David’s dick, and the thought alone is enough to have David leaking even more. 

In response, David peels down his own underwear to below his balls while Patrick moves back a little on his thighs. Patrick looks tentative for exactly one and a half seconds before he grins at David, licks his own hand, and grips David’s cock.

“Oh, _fuck,_ Patrick, ohmygod,” David gasps. Immediately he gets his own hand on Patrick again. He was right; the angle is weird and it’s almost uncomfortable, but neither of them are stopping, and fuck David’s going to come, he’s going to come all over himself and Patrick’s hand, and fuck fuck fuck— 

Patrick cries out first, and David’s hand is suddenly wet and hot and sticky and _Jesus Christ_ he made Patrick come. He looks up and watches Patrick’s head push up against the ceiling like he’s trying to pop through it, eyes closed and mouth wide open. The sight of it is enough, and even though Patrick’s hand has stilled, David comes with a series of gasps and whines.

The pleasure falls through his body in long waves, still rippling even after the crescendo, and it takes a few seconds to realize that Patrick is laughing. Not giggling, or chuckling, but _full on laughing_ on his lap. David wants to be offended, but Patrick looks like he might float away, eyes bright and cheeks stained red. 

“Something funny up there, Patrick?” David manages.

Patrick shakes his head and keeps laughing, until he drops his sweaty forehead onto David’s equally sweaty shoulder. “Oh my god,” Patrick finally gets out.

David finds himself laughing, too. He feels _light_ and _happy,_ which is frankly bizarre. 

“So, a good first?” David asks, when the laughter finally dies down.

Patrick pulls back and maybe it’s a trick of the light, but he definitely looks more than a little bit in love. “A perfect first.”


End file.
